Faciem Malum
by Aini NuFire
Summary: The musketeers are waylaid by a series of ritualistic murders in a small town.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I wrote this back in August before I even decided to do whumptober, with the intent that it'd be a Halloween themed fic. So it's been sitting on my computer until the appropriate time, which is now. I'm gonna post it in three parts, Part 1 today, Part 2 Thursday on Halloween, and Part 3 Saturday.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!**

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"_Faciem Malum_"  
Part I

"Can we please stop in that village up ahead?" d'Artagnan implored.

"We have at least two hours of daylight left," Athos replied from where he rode in the lead of their group of four, heading home after completing a mission to the south of France.

Aramis exchanged a mischievous grin with Porthos. "Are you growing soft, d'Artagnan?" he called over his shoulder. "It's too early in your career as a musketeer for that."

"_No_," the boy retorted petulantly. "But my backside could use a soft bed for one night. Plus it's getting cold. We've camped on the road for three nights and we've made good time. We can afford to give up a couple of hours."

Aramis glanced at Porthos, who shrugged.

"'E makes a good point."

"So he does," Aramis agreed. "Athos?"

The man drew his horse to a stop and shot a vaguely irritated look back at them. "The sooner we're back in Paris, the sooner we can sleep in our own beds."

"Ah, but the sooner we stop at an inn, the sooner we can have some wine," Aramis countered cheekily.

Athos huffed and nudged his horse into moving again.

"So…is that a yes?" d'Artagnan spoke up a moment later.

"Of course. You don't think Athos would say no to wine, do you?" Aramis quipped.

"The buildin' would have ta be on fire," Porthos interjected.

Aramis canted his head. "Well…"

"I stated my objections and was out-voted," Athos interrupted. "Therefore the wine can be on you three."

D'Artagnan pulled a face. "Hang on, I can't afford your tab."

"Who can?" Aramis responded with a glib grin.

"Those are my choices?" d'Artagnan continued to lament. "Going broke or sleeping on the ground?"

"No," Athos replied, veering toward the village that lay ahead. "The decision has been made."

D'Artagnan threw them all an incredulous look.

Aramis grinned as he kicked up his pace to catch up with Athos. "You don't fool us, my friend."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Athos said mildly, though there was the barest quirk at the corner of his mouth.

They reached the town and made their way toward the inn. D'Artagnan took care of stabling the horses while the rest of them went inside to ask for some rooms. With two reserved, they settled at a table and ordered some food and wine, which arrived by the time d'Artagnan joined them. The hot meal was pleasant enough and the wine palatable.

"Doesn't look like the type o' place to find a good card game," Porthos remarked with a disappointed tone.

Aramis grinned, but as he swept his gaze around the tavern, he noticed that the people gathered there were whispering to each other and casting frequent glances toward the table of musketeers. "It seems we're drawing another kind of attention," he said casually, leaning back and draping one arm over the back of his chair.

D'Artagnan straightened, not having yet learned the art of subtlety. Athos kept his head bowed over his drink but Aramis could see his eyes roving surreptitiously around the room.

Aramis watched a small group push and prod at an older man before the gentleman broke away and hesitantly approached their table.

"Good evenin', messieurs," he said, bobbing his head as though he couldn't decide whether to bow or make eye contact. "We couldna help but notice yer uniforms…yer the King's men, yeah?"

"That's right," Athos replied neutrally.

The man cast a look over his shoulder to where the others were watching intently. He cleared his throat. "We, uh, we'd like ta ask fer yer help."

Aramis arched a brow. "With what?"

"People have been goin' missin'. One each of the past three weeks. Things continue, someone else is bound ta disappear in the next couple o' days."

Aramis exchanged a look with the others.

"Missing?" Athos repeated. "Perhaps they simply left."

The villager shook his head. "No, these people 'ave lived here their whole lives. They had livelihoods an' families. They wouldn't jus' up an' leave without sayin' anythin' to anyone."

"And you have found no bodies?" Aramis asked.

"No."

"I'm not sure how we can be of help," Athos said.

"People don' jus' disappear without a trace," the man pressed.

"I've seen foul things afoot in the forest," another villager spoke up. "And the missin' have coincided with the phases of the moon."

"Please, messieurs," another interjected. "The full moon is almost upon us."

Athos rolled his eyes. Aramis knew how he felt about superstitious prattle, but these people seemed genuinely frightened.

"It can't hurt to take a look around," d'Artagnan suggested, ever eager to come to someone's aid.

Aramis glanced at Porthos and they shrugged in agreement.

"I thought you wanted to rest," Athos rejoined dryly.

D'Artagnan shot him a disapproving look and rose from the table. Aramis and Porthos stood as well.

"Have at it," Athos said, grabbing the wine bottle and refilling his cup. "I'll make good use of the wine and warmth we already paid for."

Aramis smirked as they headed out. There was still an hour of daylight left so they decided they might as well peruse the edge of the woods that lay on the eastern border of the village. In all likelihood, if something ill had befallen the missing villagers, it was probably out here where a wild animal could have gotten one, or another could have been injured and unable to make their way back.

Three in three weeks though…that _was_ a bit of a strained coincidence.

The musketeers trekked through the forest a few paces apart, looking for signs of, well, anything. But a thick fog was beginning to roll in, swallowing up what was left of the light and making it darker prematurely.

"We should head back," Aramis finally said.

D'Artagnan sighed. "Athos will never let me live this down."

"We all decided to come out here," Aramis reminded him. "And it was a long shot from the start, but if we can give these people a little peace of mind, then it was not a waste."

"Hey," Porthos spoke up. "Over there."

Aramis followed the direction of his gaze but couldn't make out much in the mist. He thought he saw some movement, perhaps a figure hunched over in the distance.

"Hey, you there!" Porthos called out.

The figure bolted and Porthos immediately charged after it. Aramis and d'Artagnan gave chase but Porthos quickly disappeared into the fog, which seemed to be growing thicker and heavier around them. A chill permeated the air and wormed its tendrils under Aramis's collar, reminding him of another whitewashed landscape. Everything fell almost unnaturally still.

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan yelled, coming to a stop and twisting around.

The fog pressed in on them and Aramis whirled at shadows that kept escaping out of the corner of his eye. "Porthos!" His voice echoed through the oppressive mist.

A cry suddenly went up, muffled as though far away, but it sounded like Porthos, and Aramis and d'Artagnan were off like a shot toward it. They stumbled multiple times, the ground a swamp of mist that hid ruts and roots from view. Aramis staggered into a clearing and barely skidded to a stop to avoid tripping over their missing friend.

Porthos was on the ground and clutching his ankle, but his pinched expression looked more chagrined than badly injured.

D'Artagnan bumped into Aramis. "Porthos?"

"'M alright," he grunted. "Jus' tripped on somethin' and twisted my ankle."

The fog seemed to slither away into the trees, revealing the shallow pit likely responsible for ensnaring Porthos. Aramis's eyes widened—three bodies had been carelessly thrown into it.

"Bloody hell," Porthos murmured.

"Oh god." D'Artagnan reached a hand up to cover his nose and mouth.

Aramis's lips thinned as he crouched down to get a better look. Each of the bodies were in various stages of decomposition with the worst at the bottom and the most recent kill on top. And they were kills—the men were bare chested and had stab wounds right through the heart. Worse than that though was the fact that each of their torsos bore strange symbols painted in blood. Aramis frowned as he studied the patterns; blood from the stab wounds looked as though they had bled _over_ the markings, which meant they had been painted on prior to death?

"I think we found the missing villagers," d'Artagnan said.

Aramis stood. "Did you get a good look at the person you were chasing?"

Porthos shook his head. "He was too fast. Can't see how he didn't trip on somethin' in all this blasted fog."

Aramis swept his gaze around the trees wreathed in hazy shrouds. The forest was quiet and still again. "Let's get back. We'll need a cart to retrieve the bodies."

He turned back to Porthos and reached down to give him a hand up. He'd examine the ankle when they were out of these woods. D'Artagnan ducked in under Porthos's other shoulder and together they helped Porthos hobble back to the town, the sinister looking fog having retreated into unknown crevices and hollows.

It was dark by the time they reached the village and made their way back to the inn. The group that had beseeched them for help was still there, and the older man immediately jumped to his feet at their entrance.

"Messieurs! What happened?"

"A minor disagreement with a rut," Aramis replied as he helped Porthos sit in the nearest open chair. He turned to the villager remorsefully. "I'm afraid we did come across your missing people. I'm sorry, they're dead."

The villager reeled back while whispers rippled through the others gathered in the tavern.

Athos was making his way over to them. "What did you find?"

"A mass grave," Aramis said, then lowered his voice. "And it was murder."

Athos's brows knitted together.

"I saw someone out there," Porthos said. "He got away though."

"We'll need a cart and torches if we are to retrieve the bodies tonight," Aramis put in. "Which might be prudent in case the culprit goes back to move them."

Athos nodded and turned to the villagers in the tavern. "Gather some men and a wagon." He looked back at Porthos. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Porthos groused. "More embarrassed than anythin'."

"Stay off that ankle until I have a chance to look at it," Aramis instructed. "D'Artagnan can help you up to the room."

He got a glower at that but ignored it as he and Athos headed back out into the night.

With six villagers, a mule-drawn cart, and multiple torches, Aramis led them back into the woods, trying to keep himself oriented in the dark. The last thing he wanted was to get more people lost in the forest.

But while their mad dash after Porthos had turned him around, it had been a more or less straight shot from the grave back to the village. The strange mist from before didn't make a reappearance, as though it found itself outnumbered in the face of the group's increased numbers and flickering torchlights.

Aramis hadn't thought to warn them beforehand, and when the grave came into view, several gasps issued from the villagers. Athos's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the state of the bodies.

"We'll investigate more in the morning," he declared. "For now, let's just get them back to the village."

With grim somberness, the villagers began lifting the bodies out of the shallow grave and transferring them to the cart. Aramis removed his hat and said some words over them. Their mortal vessels had been desecrated and he felt it important to offer their departed souls something in the interim before they could be laid to rest properly.

Then they turned their procession back toward town, coils of fog lurking behind them.

o.0.o

Athos knew he shouldn't have begrudged their delay, given the villagers' worries had turned out to be founded and as musketeers it was their duty to protect France's citizens from a murderer running free. Yet still, it was somewhat of an inconvenience. At least their mission had been completed and Athos only had to send word ahead to Paris to alert Treville of the problem and their intent to stay and investigate it.

With that taken care of, Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan began to ask around the town whether any of the three victims had had trouble or grievances with anyone. Porthos, to his annoyance, had been instructed to stay behind and rest his ankle.

But as the three musketeers made the rounds, they kept coming up with the same answers—none of the three men who'd been killed had been hated or had any disagreements that would lead to a violent altercation.

"I think we can conclude these weren't simple murders," Aramis said pointedly after a couple of hours of fruitless inquiries. "Those symbols on the bodies looked to be of the occult."

Athos pressed his mouth into a thin line. Yes, that was…troubling. "Let's go back to the grave site and look around. We might see something we missed last night."

"Or find tracks," d'Artagnan put in.

They headed to the stable and saddled their horses, then rode off into the woods. When they reached the clearing with the shallowly dug grave they dismounted. Unfortunately, the area had already been disturbed by the efforts to retrieve the bodies the night before. The three musketeers spread out, searching the perimeter for signs the killer might have left behind.

"Here," d'Artagnan called.

Athos and Aramis made their way over to him. D'Artagnan pointed out a boot print in the dirt that was not heading back toward the town. Nodding to the lad to take the lead, Athos and Aramis went back to retrieve their horses' reins, and then they proceeded on foot as d'Artagnan followed the tracks.

They didn't make it very far before the trail disappeared.

D'Artagnan huffed in frustration as he paced back and forth trying to pick it up again. "With all that fog last night, the ground should have been damp enough to leave more impressions," he griped.

"It's not your fault," Aramis said. "We should be reaching the edge of the woods soon; let's see where it comes out."

D'Artagnan threw a questioning look at Athos, who gave a subtle nod in agreement.

A few minutes more of walking and they indeed reached the border of the forest. There still wasn't any sign of their quarry, but they were surprised to spot an old church across a stretch of grassy terrain. As they approached, Athos noticed several windows had been boarded up and there were chains on the door.

"What a dreary fate for a house of God," Aramis commented.

Athos walked up to the door and yanked on the handle, confirming it was truly locked. He stepped back and craned his neck up to scan the windows. "If there's a way in, our killer may be hiding out here."

Wordlessly, the three of them split up to do a circuit around the premises, but each door Athos checked was effectively barred. When he met up with Aramis and d'Artagnan, they reported the same.

"What now?" d'Artagnan asked.

"We'll look around a little more," Athos said, walking back to his horse and swinging up into the saddle.

As Aramis and d'Artagnan mounted up, Athos shifted his gaze back toward the abandoned church, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He had the distinct sensation of being watched, though he spotted no shadows or movement to confirm it.

Shaking it off, he turned his horse and they rode back to the forest's edge, skirting it for a lieue before deciding to turn back and return to the town when they came up empty handed. The lack of leads weighed on Athos's mind, for the ritualistic nature of the murders suggested a compulsion that would not stop until the killer was apprehended.

They guided their horses back toward the inn's stable, only to find Porthos hobbling around outside with a forked branch under his arm as a makeshift crutch.

"What do you think you are doing?" Aramis chastised, swinging down from his saddle and marching toward the large musketeer.

"'M fine," Porthos huffed. "An' stop fussin', I haven't gone far. Jus' thought I'd talk to some folks while you three were out."

Aramis shot him an unimpressed glower.

"And did you learn anything?" Athos asked mildly as he dismounted.

"Well, I found out about an old woman who lives outside the town, in the forest. People say she keeps to herself. They've never called her a witch before, but they're startin' to whisper it now."

Athos rolled a dry look at him. "I don't think an old woman could have killed three hale men."

"Not unless she actually is a witch," d'Artagnan interjected.

Athos sent him a pointed glare. "If she lives in the woods, she might have seen something, so we might as well go speak with her."

"Messieurs!" a voice called, and they turned as a young lad came jogging up to them. Athos remembered he'd accompanied the group to retrieve the bodies. Philippe, he thought his name was.

"Messieurs," he repeated, out of breath. "I found somethin' I think you should see."

"What?" Aramis asked.

The boy shook his head. "I don't know how to describe it."

"Where?" Athos inquired.

"Out near the old church."

Athos exchanged a look with the others.

"We were just out there," Aramis said. "There was no sign of anything and the place was locked up tight."

Philippe shrugged one shoulder helplessly. "There's somethin' there now. I take the sheep out by the pasture that way an'…" His throat bobbed. "I never seen anythin' like it before."

Athos frowned. "Alright, Aramis and I will go back to the church. D'Artagnan can question the old woman."

"And _you_ will get off that leg," Aramis said sternly to Porthos.

"I am off it," Porthos retorted, gesturing to how he was keeping the limb from touching the ground by leaning on the crutch. "'Sides, you can't send the pup alone to talk to a witch."

"Um, I was joking about that," d'Artagnan spoke up. "I'll be fine."

"See? He'll be fine." Aramis grabbed Porthos's arm and began to steer him back to the inn.

Athos turned to Philippe. "Do you know where this old woman lives?"

The boy nodded. "Uh, yeah. Out in the woods that way."

D'Artagnan followed the direction he pointed and nodded. "You'd better hope I don't get turned into a toad," he said as he mounted his horse.

Athos rolled his eyes and watched him ride off. When Aramis returned, having successfully browbeaten Porthos into staying put, they mounted their steeds again with Philippe behind Athos and rode back toward the abandoned church.

"What are we looking for?" Athos asked when they arrived.

Philippe gestured toward the back door, which was now unbarred and slightly ajar. Athos exchanged a silent look with Aramis and they dismounted, drawing their swords to have at the ready.

"Stay here," Athos told Philippe.

He and Aramis crept cautiously toward the door and peered inside. The inner foyer was empty. Aside from the fact that only an hour earlier the place had been locked up, Athos saw nothing alarming that would have set the shepherd boy on edge. Unless out of curiosity he had ventured further into the church.

Athos kept his senses sharp as he and Aramis moved down the corridor. Even so, he heard and saw nothing, and the blow from behind caught him completely by surprise, the force of it sending him immediately into blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Happy Halloween! It's not really a holiday I'm into, to be honest, but I do enjoy writing special fics for it, hehe. Time to see just what trouble our boys have gotten into.**

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"_Faciem Malum_"  
Part II

It was getting late as d'Artagnan guided his horse through the dense forest looking for one cabin in the midst of it all. He was going to have to turn back soon, though he was loathe to return in failure when he'd been given a simple enough task.

Finally though, he spotted a thatched roof up ahead through the foliage. Upon first glance, the cottage seemed small and quaint, but then d'Artagnan noticed there were dozens of dried herb bundles hanging around the rim of the roof. He swallowed nervously, wondering if he should rethink that whole witch thing… Although surely such things weren't real.

He swung out of the saddle and cleared his throat. "Hello? Is anyone home?"

The door creaked open and a wizened old woman stepped out with a broom, only she was holding it the wrong way up like she was prepared to use it as a weapon.

"Who are you? What do you want?" she snapped.

D'Artagnan raised his palms. "My name is d'Artagnan of the King's Muskteers. I'm just here to ask you a few questions."

"I have no business with musketeers. Now get out of here."

"Please, madame," he pressed. "Three men from the town have been murdered and the bodies were found in these woods last night. If you've seen anything strange going on, people passing through, it could be of great help."

She narrowed her eyes. "Even if I have, why would you believe me?"

D'Artagnan faltered. "Uh…"

She let out a derisive snort. "I know what the townsfolk are saying about me. They call me an old crone, and sometimes worse. Bet they pointed you my direction 'cause they thought I had something to do with those deaths."

D'Artagnan grimaced. That had more or less been the mindset behind those who'd mentioned her to Porthos, he suspected.

She harrumphed. "Did you know they used to come to me for their hurts and sicknesses? I was revered among them once. Then the Catholic church starts spouting rhetoric and suddenly my knowledge goes against modern science and is deemed dark magic."

"I'm not interested in philosophical debates," he said. "I'm trying to catch a killer before he strikes again. Please, tell me what you know."

The old woman seemed to consider him for a long moment. Then she finally lowered the broom. "Evil has moved into this area. I can feel its presence."

D'Artagnan had to hold back a groan. For a brief moment, he'd actually expected to get something solid from the woman, not more superstitious babble.

"It's made its nest in the old church," she went on, piquing his attention.

"What? But I was just there and it's all locked up."

"Appearances can be deceiving," she replied cryptically. She tipped her head back to look at the sky. "Tonight is the full moon. It will bring the apex of the darkness's power."

D'Artagnan sighed. No wonder the villagers thought this woman a witch. Still, the comment about the church, and the village boy had said he'd seen something there. Perhaps there was some validity to it.

"Thank you," he tried to say sincerely and turned away.

"Wait," she called. She plucked something from a pot by the door and shuffled toward him, then tucked a small white flower into his coat. "I can see you are a lion heart. White heather will protect you for when you walk into the darkness."

D'Artagnan really had no idea what to say to that, but the weight of her words filled his heart with an inexplicable sense of dread as his thoughts turned to Athos and Aramis.

He said a hasty thanks again and swung up onto his horse, turning around and quickening his pace through the woods as he rode toward the old church, chasing the retreating light of the setting sun.

o.0.o

Aramis gave the manacles on his wrists another tug. He'd already determined the chains hooked into the wall of the cellar were secure, but it was a nervous habit he kept engaging in while he and Athos waited for their captors to show themselves. There had to be more than one, as both musketeers had been neutralized at the same time without having a chance to put up a fight or even see their attackers. Then they'd both woken up in chains in a dim cell with a single torch in a wall sconce to see by.

The base of Aramis's neck ached from where he'd been struck and knocked out, and he reached a hand up to rub at it. The chains clinked with the movement. There was enough slack to move a few feet away from the wall, not that it mattered save it gave him room to pace in growing agitation.

"What do you think happened to Philippe?" he asked to break the silence.

"Hopefully he fled and went back to the village to report what happened," Athos replied. "Porthos may not be in any shape to come to our aid, but someone could fetch d'Artagnan."

Footsteps sounded out in the hall and they both straightened in expectation. The door opened and figures in black robes and face masks began to file in. Aramis couldn't believe how many there were; they'd started off suspecting _one_ killer, but here there was a group of six. Assuming they _were_ responsible for the ritualistic murders, but by the sinister aura they were projecting, Aramis had no trouble believing it.

The last man wasn't wearing a mask and he was clothed in a black cassock with a red satin sash around the waist. Holding his chin imperiously high, he roved beady eyes over the musketeers, settling his gaze on Aramis at the end.

"Philippe says you are a man of God."

Aramis gazed back at the—priest?—uncertainly. "Where is he?"

The man gestured to one of the robed figures, who pulled off his mask. Aramis was dismayed to see it was Philippe, the nervous shepherd boy from before now bearing a minatory leer.

"My master will be pleased with an offering of a man of faith," the priest went on.

"Master?" Aramis repeated.

"What are you talking about?" Athos demanded.

The man briefly looked his way. "Souls. Satan relishes claiming them for himself, especially those that belong to God." He returned his piercing gaze to Aramis. "A worthy sacrifice for the Prince of Darkness."

Aramis shifted back a step as a chill ran down his spine. The masked acolytes moved forward then and seized his arms. He tried to throw them off, but one kicked out the backs of his legs, driving him to his knees. The priest held out his hand and another servant passed over a goblet. Aramis continued to struggle as rough hands grasped his jaw and forced it open. The goblet was brought closer and its contents poured into his mouth. Before he could spit it out, those same hands had clamped his jaw closed and kept it that way. Aramis bucked beneath their unyielding grip, desperate not to swallow whatever the bitter brew was.

But then someone pinched his nose, cutting off his air. His eyes blew wide, his lungs beginning to burn all too quickly. It only took a few seconds for his body to betray him and suck down the liquid in a frantic bid for oxygen. The hands released him and Aramis bowed forward as violent coughs punched their way out of his chest. He thought he might have swallowed some of the drink down the wrong pipe.

Athos was shouting, the rattle of his chains echoing through the dungeon. Aramis was still catching his breath when the acolytes released him from the shackles and hauled him to his feet. Athos's railing was left behind as he was dragged out of the cell and down the winding stone corridors.

They emerged into the church's main hall, devoid of pews and lit by dozens of candles and the streaming moonlight through the stained glass. One milky beam fell directly upon an altar erected up on a stepped dais. Dark colored stains ran down the sides.

Aramis was brought to an abrupt halt and then those hands were yanking his coat off. This was when he should have lashed out and struck a blow to at least one of his captors, but he suddenly found his vision starting to blur. He blinked rapidly trying to clear it. A lightness was sweeping through his veins, making his limbs feel like limp appendages rather than deft instruments of violence.

His braces were tugged off his shoulders and then came the sound of rending fabric a moment before his shirt was torn away. Gooseflesh rippled across his exposed torso.

The priest stepped up to him, his visage warping into a contorted, twisting face that made Aramis squeeze his eyes shut before he became ill. He felt a cold hand brush against his chest as fingers grasped his rosary and crucifix.

"These don't have the power to save you here."

The cords were yanked off and Aramis opened his eyes to see them tossed against the wall. His heart lurched with inexplicable terror at the loss.

The acolytes seized him again and he struggled feebly as he was manhandled over to the altar and lifted onto it. His limbs barely responded as they were lashed down with ropes, effectively pinning him in place on the freezing granite.

The priest came to stand over him. One of his attendants handed him a bowl, which he dipped two fingers into. When he lifted them, they gleamed with a slick, dark substance. Then he began to chant in Latin as he lowered his hand to Aramis's chest.

Aramis flinched violently at the contact as the priest traced whorls and lines in cold unguent. His mind was too muddled to make sense of the litany, nor could he make out the symbols. But as he watched, the runes on his skin began to glow red. The air around him bent and wavered, shadows rising up in the corners like flying shrouds. The acolytes became wispy phantoms, smoke trailing off their shoulders as they stood around the hall. Aramis felt himself floating in place, like he was becoming unmoored from his body.

"St-stop!" he gasped.

The priest slowly turned his head, his face morphing into a macabre creature with a forked tongue and horns splitting his skull. His mouth cracked into a gaping grin and his eyes flared crimson with hellfire and brimstone.

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and cried out to God for deliverance. But the only answer was the priest's continuing chant and the rising susurrations on the air that whispered of ravenous hunger.

o.0.o

D'Artagnan spotted two black Friesian horses grazing at the south end of the old church as he broke through the tree line, and his adrenaline spiked. Why were Athos and Aramis still here?

He galloped across the field and reined in his horse when he reached its stablemates. In the wash of moonlight, he could see the back door of the church ajar. D'Artagnan quickly swung out of his saddle and sprinted across the yard to the entrance to slip inside. He hadn't gone far when he found Athos's and Aramis's weapons lying discarded on the floor. Now he knew something was terribly wrong.

He pulled his sword from its scabbard as quietly as possible and slunk through the corridor. He paused when he came across ornamental crosses hanging upside down on the walls. D'Artagnan wasn't as devout as Aramis, but even he felt a prickle of disquiet at the arrangement.

He was about to continue on when he thought he heard something. Holding himself completely still, he strained his ears to listen. It sounded like metal striking stone.

D'Artagnan turned down another passage, following the noise as it grew louder. There was a door open at the end of the hall and firelight flickering across the threshold. Raising his sword, d'Artagnan charged inside, only to pull up short at the lack of an enemy, just Athos yanking fervently at a set of chains.

"D'Artagnan!"

He surged forward, setting his sword down so he could pull out a lock pick. "What happened?"

"There's six of them. Never mind that," Athos said brusquely, yanking his arm away. "You need to get to Aramis now."

"After I free you," he replied, reaching for one of the shackles.

Athos struck his hand, knocking the lock pick out of his grasp, and practically lunged at him. "Go!"

D'Artagnan stumbled back in shock at the raging bellow but was quickly overcome with terror at Athos's urgency. Snatching up his sword, he wordlessly spun and bolted out of the cell. He had no idea where he was going as he ran through the empty halls of the church. What if Aramis had been taken into the woods?

But then he heard noises coming from down the hall, something that sounded like chanting. Not knowing what to expect, he held his sword in one hand and drew his pistol with the other. Then he rounded the doorjamb and skidded to a stunned stop. Across the room, Aramis was lying on a stone slab and a priest was standing over him with a knife poised above his heart.

D'Artagnan didn't think; he raised his pistol and fired. The priest jerked back and fell. Masked figures suddenly charged forward from the sides of the hall. D'Artagnan threw his spent pistol at one, clobbering them in the face. He slashed his sword at another, cutting them down easily. The remaining three had time to draw daggers before converging on him.

D'Artagnan whipped out his main gauche and met two head on, parrying their blows simultaneously. The clang of steel rang throughout the hall. D'Artagnan stabbed one in the gut and pivoted to catch another's blade. Some instinct, like a brush of air against the back of his neck, made him duck, narrowly avoiding a stab at his back. The robed figure tripped over him and crashed into his comrade instead. D'Artagnan dispatched them with swift vengeance.

He spun around in search of more, but there were none. He sheathed his rapier and took a moment to scoop up the blades and remove them from reach, though he was certain he'd dealt all of these men a severe blow. Trained soldiers they were not. He faltered when he passed one of the figures on the floor, hood fallen back, and recognized him as the village boy who'd warned them about the church. It seemed it had been a lure. His eyes were open and vacant and d'Artagnan felt a twinge of remorse, but he had to remind himself that these were murderers.

Speaking of which…he turned and rushed over to Aramis who was tied down on the stone slab. D'Artagnan's heart lurched at the sight of blood, but a quick inspection found it appeared to be painted on and not coming from any wound. He'd gotten there just in time.

Aramis's eyes were rolling back and forth wildly and had a glazed sheen.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan called.

"D-d'Artagnan?" he gasped.

"Hang on, I'll cut you loose." He took his gauche to the rope around Aramis's right wrist and sawed through it. Then he stepped over the dead priest to free his ankle.

As soon as that rope snapped, Aramis abruptly lurched up off the altar and rolled over the other side.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan shouted in surprise and quickly rounded the slab to where the marksman was sprawled half on the steps of the dais and fumbling clumsily at the rope still tied around his left wrist. D'Artagnan hastened to cut his left ankle free when harried footsteps out in the hall had him leaping up and brandishing the dagger instead.

But it was only Athos who came running in, apparently having succeeded in picking the locks on his shackles himself. He cast a quick look around at the scene before hurrying toward them.

D'Artagnan bent down again and cut Aramis the rest of the way free. Athos reached them and dropped down to grab Aramis by the shoulders and prop him up part way, eyes wide as he looked him over.

"I don't think the blood is his," d'Artagnan said.

But it sickened him to think how close his friend had come to ending up like those other slaughtered victims. And for what? If d'Artagnan didn't know any better, he'd say this whole setup looked like some kind of human sacrifice.

Aramis glanced down at his chest and let out a distressed sound. "No, no, no," he murmured frantically and tried to rub the blood off, but it had mostly dried, flaky crusts clinging to his clammy skin. He scratched at it with his fingernails instead.

Athos snagged his hand and wrenched it away. "Aramis, you're fine. Stop, you're safe."

Aramis flailed weakly and grasped at Athos's doublet, his pupils blown unnaturally wide. "He marked me for Hell. To steal my soul. I can feel it pulling me."

D'Artagnan's brows knitted together. "What is he talking about?"

"They made him drink something." Athos captured Aramis's face between his hands and peered intensely into his eyes. "Aramis, you've been drugged. Do you remember?"

Aramis's gaze rolled away and across the ceiling without focus. "I'm slipping…" His head lolled back down toward the blood painted on his chest and he let out an anguished keen.

"D'Artagnan, find some water to wash this off."

D'Artagnan immediately jumped up and turned to search the chamber. There was a work table against the wall with various supplies and items. He found a cauldron with water, but there were bits of plants floating in it. A bucket with more liquid was nearby so he grabbed that instead and carried it back over.

"I saw some mushrooms," he said, setting the bucket next to Athos.

"What kind?"

D'Artagnan's mouth pinched as he cast a sympathetic look at Aramis. "Not the good kind."

"We'll need a physician then when we get back to town." Athos turned his attention to the man in his arms. "Aramis, close your eyes."

Aramis didn't seem to hear him and kept flinching at nothing as he tracked invisible phantoms above their heads.

"Aramis." Athos grasped his chin and turned his head to force his gaze to settle on him. "Do you trust me?"

Aramis's chest hitched but he gave a jerky nod.

"I swear to you on my honor, nothing you think you're seeing will touch you. Close your eyes."

D'Artagnan had never seen Aramis look so terrified. He'd heard of people eating the wrong type of mushroom and experiencing waking nightmares the likes of which could send any balanced man spiraling into insanity with blood-curdling screams. He couldn't imagine what form of apparitions could torment his friend so.

Aramis looked hesitant, but after a tense moment, he squeezed his eyes shut.

Athos yanked his scarf from around his neck and dunked it in the bucket of water, then proceeded to wash off the painted blood. Aramis shuddered at the contact, and as more cold water sluiced over his skin, he began to shiver.

D'Artagnan got to his feet again to look for his shirt. He found the articles of clothing discarded in the corner and gathered them up. He also spotted Aramis's rosary and crucifix on the floor and pocketed them.

"They cut his shirt off," he announced as he came back over. "But his doublet is intact."

Athos just nodded as he continued to wipe the blood off. When he was finally done, Aramis seemed barely conscious and was shivering violently. Athos pushed him up into a sitting position and held him there while d'Artagnan wrestled his arms into the sleeves of the coat and fastened the clasps.

Athos tipped Aramis's chin up. "Aramis, stay with us."

His eyelids fluttered blearily in response.

"Keep them closed," Athos said with surprising gentleness. "Just don't pass out on us yet."

They each slung one of Aramis's arms over their shoulders and heaved him up. He was nearly a dead weight between them and d'Artagnan wondered just how much those bastards had made him drink, and whether it would be fatal.

Exchanging a worried look over their friend's slumped head, d'Artagnan and Athos moved forward to carry him out of this godforsaken church.

The air outside instantly felt lighter somehow and d'Artagnan found himself sucking in a deep breath. Aramis seemed less heavy too, though he was definitely unconscious now.

The horses were where d'Artagnan had left them, but Athos gave them a consternated glower as though not looking forward to trying to mount them.

"Here, take him," d'Artagnan said, shifting Aramis's full weight to Athos. He went to get his horse and brought it back around to them. With a tug of the reins and clicking of his tongue, he coaxed the animal into kneeling down.

Athos arched a surprised brow at him.

D'Artagnan spared a moment to smirk back. Then he waited while Athos positioned Aramis in the saddle and climbed on behind him before signaling his horse to stand again.

"Hang on," he said suddenly, remembering to dart back into the church and retrieve Athos's and Aramis's weapons. After securing those to Athos's horse, d'Artagnan swung up onto Aramis's and they rode off, following the ribbon of moonlight that led back to town.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you guests Laureleaf and Uia for your reviews! Final chapter with some comfort goodness. Monday I'll post the start of my next chapter fic.**

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"_Faciem Malum_"  
Part III

Porthos was at his wits' end. All three of his brothers had ridden out earlier that day and not one of them had come back. D'Artagnan had gone to talk to a rumored witch, and Athos and Aramis had gone to investigate something supposedly so heinous the poor shepherd boy hadn't even had words to describe it. Porthos could only imagine what kinds of trouble they might have gotten into now that it was well after sunset. And if they were in trouble, he sure as hell wasn't going to sit around the inn doing nothing, busted ankle be damned.

He grabbed his crutch and hobbled downstairs. The only problem was, who did he go after first? D'Artagnan was alone while Athos and Aramis had each other. Never mind the fact that Porthos had been to neither the old woman's cottage nor the old church the others had come across, and he didn't know his way around these parts. With how scared the villagers were, he didn't think he'd be able to convince anyone to go with him.

His frustration was bubbling up to an explosive level by the time he stepped out the inn door, but he pulled up short just as three familiar horses trotted down the street toward him. His irritation was quickly doused in ice as he saw one was riderless. As they drew closer, Porthos realized that was because one horse was carrying double.

"Oi, what happened?" he yelled, forgetting the crutch and limping forward in his haste to reach them.

Athos reined in his horse—or rather, d'Artagnan's—his other arm wrapped around an unconscious Aramis's waist. "It's a long story. Can you ask the innkeeper to send for a physician while we get him inside?"

Porthos searched his best friend's lax face, loathe to pull himself away when Aramis was wounded, but he couldn't exactly offer much assistance with his ankle the way it was. Pain was currently pulsing its displeasure at having to bear any of his weight.

With a clipped nod, Porthos forced himself to turn and hobble back inside the inn. "Hey!" he shouted. "We need a doctor!"

The people in the tavern exchanged startled looks.

"We don' have one," someone answered.

They had to be bleedin' joking.

The door behind him opened and Athos and d'Artagnan shuffled in with Aramis hanging between them.

"They say there's no doctor," Porthos growled.

Athos huffed out an audibly vexed breath, which showed how deeply he was concerned for the unconscious man in his arms.

"I know someone," d'Artagnan spoke up, casting a hesitant glance around at the villagers present. "The old woman."

"You've got ta be kiddin' me," Porthos muttered.

"She had nothing to do with the murders," d'Artagnan said indignantly. "Before this all started, she was actually the town's medicine woman." At that, his glare at the villagers turned pointed. "I can go and bring her back here."

Porthos stiffened. "Not alone. It's too dangerous out there."

"The ones responsible for the murders are all dead," Athos put in quietly. He gave the boy a nod and grunted as he took all of Aramis's weight onto himself.

"I'll be fine," d'Artagnan said to Porthos. "Just take care of Aramis." With that, he turned and left quickly.

Porthos grumbled under his breath and reached out to help Athos, but his friend shook his head.

"I got him. If you think you can get up the stairs first, turn down one of the beds."

Porthos _could_ get up the stairs first, but he could also just hear Aramis scolding him for it. But he would gladly endure it if it meant his brother would be okay, so Porthos gritted his teeth against the pain in his ankle and limped his way back up to the room they were renting. He had the blankets pulled back and the fire in the hearth stoked by the time Athos had caught up. The swordsman laid Aramis on the readied bed and Porthos finally got a chance to look him over properly. He didn't see any noticeable wounds though.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's been drugged. Can you get him out of his coat?" Without waiting for a response, Athos moved away and began rifling through Aramis's saddlebag.

Porthos sat on the edge of the mattress and undid the clasps of the leather doublet. He frowned when he noticed that was the only thing Aramis was wearing.

Athos returned with a shirt and they wordlessly changed Aramis into it.

"What happened?" Porthos repeated, having trouble putting all these strange pieces into a cohesive picture.

"They were devil worshippers."

He blinked. "What?"

Athos tucked the blankets up around Aramis's shoulders. "That's what the leader said. The victims were offerings to Satan."

Porthos glanced between him and Aramis in horror.

Athos sank onto the other side of the bed and rested a hand on Aramis's chest, letting it sit there for a few moments, rising and falling with their brother's breathing. "They drugged him, painted those symbols on him like the others and…" He flicked his gaze to Aramis's pale face. "If d'Artagnan hadn't come after us when he did…" He left that thought hanging ominously.

Porthos swallowed around a lump gathering in his throat. "You said they're all dead?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "Good."

They sat in silence after that, not really having anything to do or knowing what to do, until d'Artagnan finally returned, leading an old woman with white hair and crow's feet around sharp eyes into the room. Porthos couldn't help but tense slightly. Devil worshippers and witches, he'd had enough of this accursed town.

"This is Olga," d'Artagnan introduced. "This is Athos and Porthos, and that's Aramis."

Athos rose to his feet. "Madame, thank you for coming."

She huffed grouchily, but Porthos got the sense it was more put-upon than anything. Her eyes fell on the unconscious man in the bed and she shuffled forward, taking Athos's place. She pulled Aramis's arm out from under the blankets and wrapped a gnarled hand around his wrist.

"Hm," she hummed after a minute. "A bit slow. You said he was forced to drink something? What was in it?"

"Mushrooms, definitely," d'Artagnan answered. "And some other herbs, I think." He recounted what he had seen back at the church, those he could identify anyway.

"I'm hesitant to give him anything else lest it interact with what he's already consumed," Olga said. "Best we keep a close eye on his heart rate and breathing and should an intervention be needed later, we'll deal with it then."

Porthos didn't think that was very helpful at all, but he supposed it was better not to risk causing more harm. He almost asked if she wasn't going to make up some sort of witch's brew but decided that would be rude.

It was a bit crowded on the small bed and since he figured Olga would want to keep close in order to monitor her patient, Porthos forced himself to stand and move over to a nearby chair. He hissed as he put weight on his ankle and it nearly buckled, but he caught himself on the back of the chair and plopped into it without much trouble.

"And what ails you?" Olga asked.

"Jus' twisted my ankle the other night," he replied. "It's fine."

"You're as bad as Aramis," Athos said dryly.

Olga waved her hand at Porthos. "Let me see."

"Really, it's—"

"Do not make me come over there."

Porthos snapped his mouth shut.

D'Artagnan leaned toward Athos. "So is she."

Porthos huffed as he bent down to remove his boot, then lifted his leg to prop it up on the foot of the bed. Olga reached over to undo the wrapping Aramis had put on the night before.

"Look at how swollen this is," she tutted. "You went gallivanting about, didn't you?"

Porthos shrugged unapologetically. "I tried. Didn't actually get far so it hardly counts."

Olga turned to d'Artagnan. "Young man, would you fetch some cold water and cloths so I can wrap this?"

D'Artagnan nodded and bowed out of the room.

"That's what Aramis would do," Porthos grumbled. "So I guess you must know what yer doin'."

"A man of medicine, is he? I thought he was a solider like the rest of you."

"Aramis is our field medic," Athos answered.

"He's usually the one patchin' up our hurts," Porthos added. He slid his gaze to his friend and pressed his mouth into a thin line. He never liked seeing any of his brothers hurt, but it was worse when it was Aramis who was wounded because they didn't have the same measure of knowledge and skill to care for him as well as he always did for them.

He caught Olga regarding him thoughtfully and straightened.

"I'll do my best," she said sincerely, as though able to read all that on his face.

Porthos nodded in acceptance. She didn't seem so bad after all.

D'Artagnan returned and Olga set to wrapping Porthos's ankle with the cool cloths. Athos stood at Aramis's head and monitored his condition while she was busy doing that.

Then they all settled in for a long night.

o.0.o

Aramis jolted awake with a sucking gasp like a man who was drowning, fulvous eyes and gnarled claws snatching at his heels. He flailed, fighting against the bonds lashed around his arms, legs, and torso that were tying him down. Hands grabbed at him and he tried to wrench away, but the restraints tangled around his limbs and held him fast.

"Easy, easy," a voice soothed. "Yer okay. Yer safe. Jus' breathe."

Aramis froze as he registered Porthos's warm timbre. Pain spiked through his head like a pistol shot and he fell back against a soft surface. The ropes he'd thought were holding him were in fact bedsheets, and Porthos's steady hands grasped his shoulders firmly.

"That's it, I got you."

Aramis's chest hitched with each ragged, jarring breath. He flung his gaze around, squinting against the agony in his head, and thought he recognized their room at the inn. But the last thing he remembered was…

He snapped his head up again and clawed frantically at his shirt.

"Hey, whoa." Porthos captured his hands between his own. "It's gone. Okay? All washed off." One hand was large and strong enough to keep both of Aramis's pinned in his weakened condition, and Porthos shifted his other to squeeze the back of his neck. "Calm down. Yer fine. It's over."

Aramis's vision wavered with each shuddering breath, but he didn't see any sign of the blood painted symbols beneath the open laces of his shirt nor feel their tacky stickiness. He collapsed back onto the bed. "Wh-what happened?" he rasped.

"D'Artagnan went after you after talkin' to the old woman in the woods. He shot the priest before the bastard could send you into the next life, then took care of the others. Then he an' Athos brought you back here. It's late afternoon of the next day."

Aramis barely heard the latter half of the explanation, the words "send you into the next life" reverberating over and over in his head. His soul had been marked for the devil, for hell. He'd felt it, felt that evil, pervading presence sink its talons into him and dig deep, and no amount of his faith or prayer had been able to deliver him. Was he even really saved now?

Porthos grumbled. "Last night we were worried over yer breathin' bein' too slow an' now it's too fast."

"Have him drink this," a weathered voice spoke up, startling Aramis violently.

"Easy, Aramis," d'Artagnan's voice joined the mix.

Aramis squinted up to find the young Gascon had appeared on the other side of the bed. D'Artagnan lifted a cup to his lips and braced his head as he drank from it. The bitter liquid almost made him gag but his parched throat overruled the reflex and he swallowed urgently to quench it. Then he was eased back into the pillow.

He frowned, unable to place the other speaker. "Who…?"

"Meet Olga," Porthos introduced, gesturing to the foot of the bed where Aramis could make out the outline of someone. "She's the grandmother version of you."

Aramis blinked a few times, the playful quip not even registering.

"You've had a difficult night," the woman said.

He briefly flashed back to the church and the altar and held his breath until it passed. She had no idea.

"But you're on the mend now," she went on. "I can tell you have a nasty headache, which is to be expected. I put some willow bark in that tea you just drank; that should help, and I'll leave a supply for you."

Aramis heard Porthos give his thanks. Then there was some muffled noise followed by silence. A hand settled on his forearm and he flinched, eyes shooting open despite the stab of pain it caused.

"It's jus' me," Porthos said softly, expression pained and sympathetic.

Aramis grimaced. "'M sorry."

"It's alright," he quickly assured. "Jus' rest. I'm not goin' anywhere."

Aramis tried to rove his gaze around the room without aggravating the pounding in his head but gave up when he failed. "Where…?"

Thankfully, Porthos had always been able to understand him without many words. "D'Artagnan's takin' Olga home. He'll be back in a bit."

Aramis's heart suddenly lurched. "Athos! He was in the church too—"

"Athos is fine," Porthos interrupted, reaching out to squeeze Aramis's shoulder. "He's jus' out cleanin' things up at the church. Seems only that Philippe boy was from the village. The others no one recognized. A bunch o' sadistic loons who decided to set up shop out here. Probably thought they could get away with snatchin' people without drawin' too much attention."

Aramis closed his eyes. Until four musketeers had ridden into town. And even then, the priest had almost succeeded in his plans. Aramis's hand unconsciously drifted up toward his neck, but the tokens of his faith he expected to find weren't there. His breathing hitched.

"Hey," Porthos's voice filtered through the drumming. "You need more of that tea?"

"No," Aramis whispered. He turned his head and squinted at his friend. "How's your ankle?"

Porthos chuckled. "It's fine. Olga subjected me to her ministrations too. I'll be ready to ride by the time you are."

Aramis couldn't even think of riding a horse at this point. Or of walking, or of even sitting up for that matter. He felt…hollowed out and laid bare. Evil had touched him and he couldn't help but wonder if he was still tainted by it. Normally he would pray when his heart was distressed so, but he couldn't find any words to raise to heaven.

His chest constricted and a spiky lump settled in his throat. Turning his arm over, he snagged desperately at Porthos's sleeve. Again, words failed him, but Porthos had never needed words to know when Aramis couldn't voice his need for a physical anchor to keep him rooted in the present.

Porthos just folded his other hand over Aramis's cold fingers and leaned his elbows on the mattress. Fervent brown eyes promised he wasn't going anywhere, and would stand watch.

o.0.o

Athos walked through the streets of Paris, eyes on the steepled roof of his destination ahead. It had been a week since the events in that small town and the four musketeers had returned to their duties and normalcy.

Mostly. Aramis had recovered physically but it was clear he was haunted by what he had gone through. He barely ate and looked like he slept little. Treville had been keeping him on light duty since their return, and Aramis had used it to slip away for hours on end, sometimes all night. Porthos was sullen with worry; d'Artagnan optimistically suggested Aramis was just seeking comfort in the company of women.

Athos had a better inkling of where he was going and had confirmed it one night by following Aramis at a distance. He'd given the marksman space since then to work through things on his own. But after another couple of days, it clearly wasn't working.

Athos walked through the open doors of the church and passed through the vestibule into the great hall. There were a few parishioners at this time of day, mostly up near the front altar to light a candle and offer their prayers before the statues of Christ and the saints.

Aramis was sitting in the last pew in the very back, head bowed forward and pressed against his folded hands, the chains of his rosary and crucifix intertwined around his fingers.

Athos crossed the hall and took a seat beside him. Aramis was either ignoring him or didn't notice, as his lips didn't cease moving in silent supplication. Athos waited.

After a few minutes, Aramis finally stopped and sighed, then lifted his head. He slumped back in the pew but still didn't say anything. The silence stretched between them like a chasm.

"Do you believe in Satan?" Aramis finally asked.

"I haven't really given it serious thought," Athos answered honestly, though he was inclined to say no. But his beliefs weren't what mattered here.

"God is real. It follows that Satan is. The Bible even says he prowls about like a lion looking for souls to devour. If I hold the rest of the sacred Word to be true, then that must be as well."

"Satan was not in that church," Athos said.

Aramis's knuckles whitened around the rosary. "You didn't see—" His words choked off and he took a breath. "You didn't see it—_him_. I have seen evil men in this world, witnessed their capacity for evil deeds. But never before have I seen the face of Evil." He looked away with a shudder.

"Aramis," Athos said firmly, "that was the mushrooms. The priest was just a man. An evil man, as you said, but a man all the same."

The marksman shook his head. "He tried to claim my soul for his master. And I could do nothing. I have devoted my life to God, but when it comes down to it, the Enemy could snatch me away at a whim."

Athos pressed his lips into a tight line. He was ill equipped to deal with crises of faith, as his had been shattered years ago. But Aramis was made of sterner stuff than him, always seeking answers and absolution no matter how irreconcilable the conflict. He usually found resolution after a time, but obviously days of searching had yet to provide him with solace.

"I think you are overlooking a salient point," Athos said.

"What?"

He leaned closer earnestly. "You are alive. You're questioning whether God abandoned you to such a heinous fate, but d'Artagnan arrived just in time to stop those men, even though there was no reason for him to suspect we were in trouble. Your soul was not claimed. I do not seek to dismiss what you experienced while drugged, but you were not left alone. You survived something otherwise insurmountable, again. Is that not God's answer to your doubts?"

Aramis stared at him for a long moment. Then his expression softened and he closed his eyes. "And God speaks through the mouth of a scorner. I am truly surrounded by miracles."

Athos snorted softly.

Aramis opened his eyes again and Athos was relieved to see some of the anguish had bled away. "Thank you." He shifted his gaze toward the front of the church. "I need a little more time…"

Athos nodded in understanding.

Aramis cast a sidelong look at him when he didn't move. "You don't have to stay. I know you have no love for God."

Athos had no intention of going anywhere. "Perhaps not, but today I find I do have something to give thanks for." He slanted a meaningful look back at his friend.

Aramis's lips quirked. "D'Artagnan our guardian angel?"

Athos rolled his eyes.

"I'm going to tell him you think of him so," Aramis went on, leaning back more comfortably in the hard pew. "Perhaps we should have a portrait commissioned. Give him a harp and a halo."

"Aren't you approaching blasphemy?"

"Saint d'Artagnan, patron saint of musketeers."

"Shut up and pray."

Aramis's face cracked with a wide grin and he leaned forward again to bow his head.

Athos didn't bother adopting the reverent position; instead he casually watched his brother in silent prayer. After all, that was what he was thankful God had not taken from him that dark and fateful night when good had triumphed over evil.


End file.
